Guadalupe Garcia McCall: Hi. My name is Guadalupe Garcia McCall. I am the author of Under the Mesquite. One of the many reasons I wrote Under the Mesquite was to honor my culture, my family, and the most important person in my young adult life -- mi Madre.

I wanted to write this novel in verse because verse is very intimate. It is very close to the heart, and I wanted to share this very special story that is very close to my heart about my mother and the love that we shared as a family in a form that would show just how important that bond is.

I want to share her love and wisdom with you by reading an excerpt to you. The poem I'm going to read to you is entitled "En los Estados Unidos":

En los Estados Unidos I trained my tongue and twisted syllables to form words that sounded hollow, like the rain at midnight dripping into tin pails through the thatched roof of our abuelita's house.

En los Estados Unidos I copied Colonial maps from a social studies book with pictures of white men wearing powdered wigs and stately white women in old-fashioned dresses. Their costumes were never as colorful as the feathers of the matachines dancing at sunset in the Christmas parades, dressed like our Aztec ancestors.

En los Estados Unidos I nibbled on school lunches of fish sticks and macaroni while my soul craved the chocolaty gravy of mole on a bed of Spanish rice.

But Mami said we were the luckiest children because we had two homes.

Every time we'd get homesick, we'd gather our belongings and walk up the street to the bus stop. The city bus would grumble and groan as it took us to the edge of the world. Then we'd walk the half mile across the International Bridge from the border in Eagle Pass to the aduana in Piedras Negras.

The chain-link fence on the bridge was like a harp, and our fingers would play a joyful tune upon its rib cage as we traipsed along, looking down at the laughing waters of the Rio Grande until we reached that other world, the one we missed so much.

In Piedras Negras Mami's mother, mi abuelita Inez, was always ready to receive us at a moment's notice. When we stayed the night, she'd roast dry mesquite meal in an iron skillet over the coals in her chimenea, then add cinnamon and sugar to make a special pínole for us. Abuelita would spoon the sweetness into paper cones. We loved to hear it whisper as the loose grains slid up and down inside our cones, teasing our mouth as it slipped away from us.

Later we would lie on Abuelita's bed in her one-room house, listening to Mami talk about America and all of that she loved about it: about having children who belonged to two countries, spoke two languages, and would someday be at home on either side.